Seven Tales for Seven Tails
by minkspit
Summary: One tale each from the seven races of the Western Deep and beyond. Fun with mythology; done to pay up for the BWD betting pool.
1. The Call of the Mountain (Canid)

Once, in the far back reaches of the Wastes, long before the Canid retook their rightful homes from the Ermehn and moved back to Aisling, a pair of Omega had a sturdy pup born to them named Pagos. She was headstrong and resourceful, with teeth as sharp and white as snow—dipped icicles and as hard as the iron she grew fascinated with, but the fates did not look kindly on her form: when she was born, Pagos was lame.

So Pagos stayed at the fortress fire, tending to fires and coals, and she learned to smelt metal and shape it into whatever she wished. She quickly became the most talented smith the fortress had, even at a young age, but she was wistful when she saw her siblings striding in a march: for she was always bound to her crutches. She made up for it by being fiercely loyal to them all, and hammered out the strongest weapons and chain mail to clothe her brothers and sisters and bring them luck.

One day, after Pagos had entered her youngling years and was no longer a pup—but a strong young Canid who would otherwise be joining the army but for her crippled legs—she was resting by the fire when a harsh wind blew in an exhausted white tern. It sought out a place to rest and found one of her crutches, settling down its weary wings. Pagos thought about wringing its neck to put it out of its misery and to bring back something for her family's pot that evening, but she had mercy, and she let the bird rest on her crutch and drink from her canteen.

After the bird had sipped from her water and taken its rest, it shook its feathers and fluttered its wings, satisfied.

"You are very bold, tired, or foolish to land on a Canid," Pagos said to the tern. "Why are you here, bird?"

"I am all three right now!" the tern said. It preened at its wings with its orange beak and plucked free a frozen feather. "I come from the northlands of the north. The spirits of the mountain up there are restless: they are having a contest to see who can give them the best gift. The winner will receive one wish for whatever they desire. I was meaning to pass by the mountain to find the sea, but their chattering drove a wind down upon me and almost drove me from the sky."

"Where is this mountain?" Pagos said, a plan already forming in her head.

"It is to the far north," the tern said, "right above Lake Fenlok. It will be the tallest and roughest mountain you see. Since you fed me, I will tell you of the cave at the bottom of the mountain. I do not know exactly where it is, but it was bored into the rock by a falling star. If you plan to journey there, it may give you shelter from the wind."

Pagos thanked the tern for its directions and allowed it to have a crust of bread and a few more minutes of rest on her crutch in return. Once the tern flew off to seek out its sea, she had made up her mind. Pagos told her family of the tern's words and the contest. She was intent on going north to wish for the restoration of her legs, as well as squeezing out information from the spirits for the good of the fortress—maybe even more drink and food. Her parents, knowing how far off Lake Fenlok was, pleaded with her not to go. Several of her siblings volunteered to accompany her or go north for her to retrieve the wish in her stead, but Pagos refused to change her mind. She gathered a sack of supplies and her smithing tools and carved herself new crutches for the journey. Realizing she wasn't going to back down, her family helped her pile together more rations and wished Pagos luck. They retreated with heavy hearts once she was out of the fortress gate and had waved them goodbye, knowing their sister and daughter had sealed her fate.

Pagos was not nearly as downtrodden. She started down the road without hesitation. Her crutches made her slow and cumbersome in the snow, but she walked without stop, and she headed north. Bandits were scarce yet still present, but Pagos had her teeth, and they soon learned to fear the tracks of a Canid with the blurred holes of crutches near them in the snow.

After miles and miles of walking, fighting off bandits and spirits, camping in icy caves, and facing freezing weather that chilled even a Canid to the bone, Pagos came to Lake Fenlok. It was an endless plain of ice seven fathoms deep that could swallow ten fortresses whole if it had not been frozen over. The mountain in the distance was a sheer, jagged face, with no way up and no way down. Pagos trudged around the lake, which took another week, and it was with relief that she found a cave at the bottom of the mountain and settled into it. But she did not lull herself into false security: the journey was not over.

There in the cave, Pagos set up a makeshift forge, and she began her work. She dug out the metal in the cave left there by the fallen star and molded it, making the hardiest weapons, chain mail coats, and breastplates the north had even seen. None of them were decorated, but they were the color of an iron pool, and they would survive even the mountain falling down on them. At times when Pagos left the cave to take a break, she could see the bright ribbons of colors shimmering above the mountain that were the spirits feasting and laughing. She worked and worked until she had used up all the best star metal and the strips of leather made by her cousin that she had not eaten out of starvation on the journey there to finish her presents.

That done, Pagos carefully packed away all of her gifts into her empty bag and strapped it to her back. She took the remaining star metal—still harder than the hardest boulder—and tamed it into a hooked chain, one that stretched out across the ground like an iron snake. She tied it and all of her ropes together, and with a whirl of her powerful arms, she swung the rope above her head and snagged it on a cliff far up above. Pagos began climbing the rope with her arms alone, gritting her teeth as the cold and rocks bit into her, and when she reached the small cliff, she unhooked her chain and began the process again. But she stayed silent: there was no other way past the final obstacle.

When Pagos neared the peak, she had worn all of her ropes into frayed ribbons, but her chain stayed strong, and she used it to pull herself over the edge onto the top. Pagos was exhausted and collapsed in a heap on the cliff, but she stared in amazement at what lay before her. The mountain was covered in tables laden with food and drink, and wind and snow swirled around the laughing contingent of spirits clothed in the finest of warm cloaks and coats, the swirling of which had created the colors Pagos had seen from the bottom of the mountain. She had reached the home of the spirits.

Pagos lay on the cold rock for a long time, but eventually, one of the spirits noticed her. They raised an alarm, and soon, a flock of them gathered around her. When she struggled to her feet to bow to her hosts, they pulled back.

"What are you?" one of them said, repulsed.

"I am a Canid, Pagos Stronghold, daughter of Yunik and Quarlen Stronghold," Pagos said. "And I am here to participate in your contest."

The spirits eyed her with fearful disgust. After thousands of miles of travel and days of smithing, Pagos was a tattered, ash-flecked, bedraggled form bent over splintery crutches that looked like a smear across their clean home and bright clothes. She managed to open the bag across her back and showed them a breastplate.

"Here," she said, "is one of my gifts."

The spirits burst out laughing.

"_That?_"

"It's a bent piece of metal; what good is it if it isn't shiny?"

"So plain!"

"We've had all the north's best artisans come up here with pretty shining baubles and vases," one spirit hooted, wiping its eyes and contorting the garish markings painted across its face, "and you think THAT is worth a wish?"

"It will save you and your family when you most need it," Pagos said. "I think that is better than any vase or useless bauble."

"And look at HER!" another one said.

"She's hideous!"

"She smells of ash and burnt fur—urgh. Get her out of here."

"Her fur is the same color as her gift. How ugly."

"Why, she can't even stand straight on her own!" a spirit chirped, noticing her crutches.

The spirits did not give Pagos another chance. They laughed her off the mountain, not looking at another one of her gifts or even so much as offering her a scrap of food or a bandage for her singes and wounds. Raw, tired, and humiliated, Pagos descended the mountain with her tail between her legs. When she reached the bottom, the final hop was too much: her crutches broke. The spirits laughed harder when her face planted in the snow.

That was the last straw. Pagos limped back to her home on all fours, filled with fury. She made the journey in almost twice the time it had taken her the first time around, but she carried her gifts with her, using a short spear as a cane when she could manage it. When she reached the fortress one of her brothers found her. Shocked to see Pagos alive, they pulled her inside and tended to her.

Once she had eaten and rested, Pagos found her voice and told her family of the mountain. They listened with knowing grimaces and winces at her journey, snarled at the treatment she had received at the hands of the spirits, and stared in awe when she opened her bag and gave them her gifts.

The spirits, Pagos said, were flighty and stupid. The only obstacle presented was that they perched atop a faraway mountain; other than that, they were weak, and they lived on a heap of riches and an overflowing abundance of food. If the Canid were to attack, they would win, especially if they wore her armor, Pagos said, and all of them would be fed and warmed for generations to come.

After some debate among the captains, the Canid agreed. They called their fortress to war. All of them gathered their weapons and supplies to move on the mountain, and Pagos returned to her forge with new crutches carved by her brother. She set to work like a demon with several other Omega smiths, teaching them her ways and creating blankets of chain mail and oceans of spear heads, and by the time they were finished, they had armed the entire garrison tooth and nail.

Readied, the Canid force set out, waving goodbye to those remaining home to watch the fortress. Pagos was at the forefront of the group, wearing a new cloak and limping through the snow as she led them on. It was spring when they set out, and winter when they arrived at Lake Fenlok, but Pagos had no fear, and she helped them navigate the treacherous rocks and climb the mountain.

The spirits had seen the Canid coming at a distance and tried to shoot them down from the mountaintop, but their arrows and slings crumpled against Pagos' impenetrable armor, and when the Canid reached the peak, what flimsy armor the spirits had—if any—was useless beneath their blades and ferocity. The spirits who were not dead fled the mountain, and Pagos bit the head off the leader who had scorned her first and foremost, throwing his gutted body up into the sky where the rainbows of laughter and tittering had once been as a reminder to the spirits of their mistake.

The Canid were amazed and overjoyed by all the plenty the spirits had. They feasted in victory and waited out the winter, and afterwards, they gathered all of their spoils, food and otherwise, and headed down the mountain. They trekked back to the fortress and shared their prizes with those at home, and Pagos and her family were elevated to Alpha, forever honored for what they had done. Pagos stayed a blacksmith, despite her class change, and she continued to craft weapons until long after she was old and blind. She and her eventual mate, another blacksmith, worked together until the day they died, and they were proud parents of many instruments of destruction, weapon and children-wise. Pagos' name was engraved in Canid legend for eternity to come, never to be forgotten, and she lived happily ever after.


	2. The Demon of Navran (Vulpin)

When Navran was a scorching blanket of sand that no one would touch, and the only ones who could make it through the desert to start were the light of foot, sharp of tongue, and cheeky of heart—when the last stone of Nessa had been set just a moon ago and none but the children of the desert were invited in—the Demon of Navran realized his pockets were empty and went hunting for some souls again.

Now, the Demon of Navran was a monster, inside and out. He had a wicked sharp face and wicked sharp eyes and a wicked sharp nose. He had eyes as yellow as an owl's and reeking breath, of course, but everyone was quiet about that, since his bad temper was worse. Instead of a regular tail, he had the curled one of an emperor scorpion, and he hid it in a cloak of tumbleweed whenever he went to join a party.

Because of his scorpion tail, he had chunks of black chitin on his lower back that made his fur fall out, much to his shame, and so he always wore a sash pulled up high to hide them. Whenever he danced on rock or paved streets, his chitin went clack-clack-clack and gave him away. So he stayed out in the desert, lurking in wait for meandering prey. The desert is vast and lonely, as every Vulpin knows. But the Demon of Navran was patient, and he lurked in wait for just the right moment to strike.

But even demons have their limits. There had been less travelers moving around as of late, and the Demon of Navran was growing lean and restless. Finally, one day, he couldn't stand it anymore. He loped off across the desert in search of a meal, ready to make any deal to get it. The Demon of Navran pricked up his keen ears and heard the sound of some lone footsteps on the sand and the sound of a merrily twanging string's tune: a fiddle. He raced across the sand and went springing over the dunes, and he landed right in front of a young fiddling traveler.

"So, traveler, I see you think you're a fiddle player," he said, flicking out his lizard tongue, and the younger fiddler tucked his bow and fiddle close and eyed him. "Since I'm feeling generous, and the desert can be long and dull, I'll make you a deal. I'm a fiddle player too. And if you're willing to take a dare, I'd bet a fiddle of gold against your soul that I'm a better player than you."

The young Vulpin stood once he had gotten over the demon's sudden appearance and rank breath, and he held himself tall. He came from the edges of Nessa's center, a rambling city brat through and through, and many a furious shopkeeper would say he was a demon too.

"Well, demon," he said, "my name's Jakka, and some might call me a fool. But I'll take your bet, and you're going to regret it—because I'm the best there's ever been."

The Demon of Navran grinned, showing his wicked teeth, and he licked his long tongue over his lips. "Well," he said, cracking open his case, "since you accept, then I'll start up this show." His fiddle was the color of scorpion shell, as was the bow; he pulled it over the strings, and they made an evil hiss. He stomped his foot as the rhythm began, rattling his chitin, and launched into a dark, relentless song.

When he was done, Jakka took a minute to let his fur settle.

"Not bad, demon," he said, raising up his fiddle and bow. "You play an alright tune. But you hold on tight to your scales, and I'll show you how it's done!"

Jakka struck up a jaunty tune with a smile as wicked as the monster himself, and he launched into his song strong. The fiddle sang as the strings rang, uplifting, fiery and cheeky, and he gave the demon hell.

When the last note's ring faded, the Demon of Navran shrank back, his tail between his legs, because he knew that he'd been beat. He begrudgingly bent low and laid the fiddle at his feet.

"Well, demon, you gave it a go; come back if you want to try again," Jakka said. "But I told you once, you ugly furless bat, I'm the best there's ever been!"

"Truly, I accept defeat; you're the better player, I admit. But you forgot your prize—" The demon gestured to the fiddle on the ground. "—so come and get it," he said, craftily cocking his scorpion's tail.

But Jakka knew the demon wasn't done and that he was feeling sore. He leaned down, pretending to make for the fiddle, and ignored the demon's twitching tail… and went for his pants instead.

In a single dart, Jakka grabbed his pants and sash and yanked them and the demon low. While the demon yelped and scrambled to pull them up and hide his chitin and balding back, Jakka took off into the dunes, both fiddles in tow.

When the Demon of Navran had gathered himself, Jakka was far out of sight. He hissed and gnashed his teeth and curled his stinger and had a terrible fit. Then he took off, sniffing around the sand and loping over the desert in determination to track him down. But it was useless, and the Demon of Navran gave up when evening came, skulking home under the moon. Jakka was long gone, and the only thing left was a distant laugh, and a few fiddle notes from beyond the dunes.


End file.
